


Grudge

by BostonianJake



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Minor Character Death, POV First Person, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BostonianJake/pseuds/BostonianJake
Summary: ... Did I bother you? My apologies.Apparently, my mother was in a relationship with some low-life of a man. She was swiftly discarded when he learned she was pregnant… That despair would lead to her death.Thanks to him, I was passed from foster home to foster home. But, I do quite well by myself these days...
Kudos: 5





	Grudge

There was no father, and memories of my mother were admittedly faint. Without pictures, I’m not sure if I would be able to fully recall her face, just abstract colors and shapes. My earliest memory involving her was when I was three years old, a mere six months away from starting preschool. I was a rather nonverbal child at the time, only really capable of speaking to my mom. It was as if my throat closed shut in the presence of other people. It never mattered who they were or how old. It was impossible for me to make myself known. Safe to say, I had no friends as a toddler. My mother was all I had.

I was sitting in the backseat of her car as we drove through the urban landscape that was Tokyo. I don’t remember where we were going, or where we had been. It might’ve been a simple grocery trip, or we were enjoying the day at the local park. All I could recall was music playing from the radio, and more importantly, my mother’s gleeful smile. 

She turned up the volume. Look Goro, she exclaimed, it’s your favorite song! 

It probably wasn’t my favorite song, but I loved it nonetheless. In response, I eagerly clapped my hands and sang along to whatever was playing. It didn’t take long for her to join in. Her singing voice was nothing short of beautiful. The remainder of the drive was filled with our mutual singing and laughter. 

If only I realized sooner how false her smile was. Then again, what could a toddler really do in the face of despair? Of course, the answer was obvious, but as I grew older, it didn’t stop me from experiencing some sort of responsibility. I would be lying if I said the weight wasn’t soul-crushing. It was.

* * *

I was six, a far more outgoing child. I was progressively growing more perceptive of the world around me, yet somehow I was constantly missing each and every single sign. I never noticed the constant bags under her eyes. I never noticed how large my meals were compared to her’s. I never noticed her progressively get skinnier with each passing month. Were these signs supposed to be obvious to a child? 

Fittingly, it happened to be downpouring outside. Whether it was mere coincidence or the gods enacting some sort of cruel irony, I could not say. I never believed in the divine. At least, not until recently. The blinds were also drawn closed, further darkening the inside of our small apartment.

By the time I had finally noticed something was wrong, it was far too late. From my perspective, the day started normal enough, though mother was quieter than usual. That was the first sign. We ate breakfast in silence before it was time for school. The ensuing drive was just as silent as our meal. I didn’t like it in the slightest. It was wrong.

When she dropped me off in front of the school, her smile just wasn’t right. It was too wide, but at the same time it wasn’t wide enough. Was there any warmth to behold? Was there genuine emotion hidden behind her incorrect smile?

Have a great day at school, was all she said to me. I love you.

I love you too, I said with a nervous stutter. 

As she drove away, a small weight formed at the bottom of my stomach. It stayed with me throughout the school day. The sounds of rain drumming against the classroom windows were reminiscent of gunfire. Time had never moved so slowly before. It was an anxiety-inducing sensation. I kept mumbling for my mother as the teacher began to cheerfully speak. It was as if nothing was wrong with the world.

Everything was wrong.

* * *

When the bell rang one last time, all the kids were eagerly exiting the school building. My classmates were either getting on the bus, or were being greeted by their parents. I was strictly in the latter category. However, my mother wasn’t in her usual spot. She wasn’t in the car, awaiting me with an eager smile. Instead, I watched the children leave one by one until I was the only one remaining. The rain didn’t let up either, so I was stuck waiting by the front door, diligently keeping track of each car that passed by.

Eventually, as the sun began to set, one of the teachers offered to take me home. I initially refused. Momma will come, I insisted. 

It had been at least an hour since school ended. I don’t think either of us were convinced. That being said, there was absolutely no way I was going to give up on my mom. Five more minutes, I said, she’ll be here soon!

Predictably, five minutes came and went with no sign of her car. The teacher once again offered to take me home. By this point, I had lost the strength to argue, so I followed the kind teacher to her car. Was it naive of me to accompany a stranger out of desperation? Absolutely. My mother would have chastised me if she were to find out I did something so careless. However, she wasn’t there to scold or yell. She just wasn’t there. 

Several terrifying thoughts plagued my mind as we drove home. The silence was far too agonizing for a six-year-old.

* * *

Kaiyo Akechi, age 34, found dead in her own apartment at approximately 6:02 p.m. According to the coroner's report, death by  asphyxiation. It was speculated she had been deceased for several hours, possibly since this morning. The police quickly ruled it as suicide. No note or plausible motive was found.

* * *

I was fortunate to never have had to lay eyes on the body, though I could not say the same for my teacher. All I could remember was her leaning against the door that led to my mother’s bedroom, refusing to let me in as tears fell from her eyes. I asked why she was crying. 

I’m so sorry, was all she told me as she wrapped her arms around my small frame. I’m so sorry, she wept. Goro, Goro, Goro, she repeated, as if saying my name ad nauseam would somehow resurrect my mother.

I couldn’t have been more confused, and I couldn’t have been more terrified. All I was able to do is return my teacher’s embrace, starting to shed a few tears of my own. I wasn’t sad, nor was I grieving. Just scared.

The next day, I would cry once more after learning I would no longer be able to see my mother for reasons my brain simply couldn’t comprehend at the time. I was more perceptive than most kids my age, but at the end of the day, I was still a young child making his way through kindergarten. I couldn’t grasp reality the same way my mother or my teacher could. These grim concepts never failed to fly over my head.

That didn’t mean I had accepted what was happening. On the contrary, in fact. Even now, I am sometimes met with a lingering sense of denial. 

* * *

I was twelve years old, out for errands while braving the cold December weather. I took any opportunity I had to step outside the orphanage. It just so happened the kitchen staff ran out of a few essential ingredients, so I eagerly offered to buy whatever they needed. Everyone was pleased with my diligence. I never minded the occasional moments of praise, but I could easily tell they were still looking down upon me. It was evident in the tone of their voices.

Snow started to fall as I left the store, plastic bag resting in my hand. Throughout the duration of my walk, I felt an intense pang of envy every time I laid eyes on a child enjoying the day with their parents. It was just a simple reminder of what I lacked, what was ripped away from my arms. I kept telling myself to not grow bitter, that these fortunate souls were ignorant of my suffering. They shared no blame whatsoever. Unfortunately, a child who was angry and sad at the world could only do so much rationalizing. I frowned for so long that my jaw started to ache. 

As I rounded a street corner, a strong, determined voice managed to catch my attention, pulling me back to reality. The man’s words of conviction spoke of a promising future for this country. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. The man was a politician, and a seemingly unknown one at that. At least he appeared to have charisma, bringing in a sizable crowd. Not impressive, but I’ve seen worse.

With a shrug of the shoulders, I figured it couldn’t hurt to see what he was all about. After all, I’d take any excuse to stay away from that cursed place. It didn’t matter where I went, the outside world was heaven compared to the absurdities I had to endure day after day.

Once I managed to get a clear view of the man preaching about national security and economic prosperity, I suddenly felt my lungs fill to the brim with ice. I was suddenly filled with a foreign sense of familiarity. It was as if I knew this man all my life. He stood tall and proud, as if he saw himself as a deity to be worshipped. His stature and demeanor were almost intimidating. 

I slowly took in all the man’s features: his bald head, his small goatee, his orange-tinted glasses. For whatever reason, every minute detail etched itself into the deepest crevices of my mind. Before I knew what was happening, his very image was fully engraved into my skull.

As I listened to his optimistic words, a strange, burning sensation welled up in the pit of my stomach. The longer I gazed upon him, the stronger the feeling became. It didn’t take long before I was seeing red, and thinking irrational, violent thoughts. For seemingly no reason, the mere sight of this charismatic politician was enough to make my blood boil and my ears ring. Was it possible for a first impression to be so powerful? Of course, much like many questions I’ve often asked myself, I did not have the answer.

All I knew, and cared about, was the fact I hated him.

The man continued his speech, blissfully unaware of my presence. I thank each and every one of you for gathering on this cold day, he exclaimed enthusiastically. My quest to ascend the political ladder will be a long and grueling one. But with your support, I will see to it that my dream of a powerful country shall become a reality! A prosperous future is on the horizon! Once I become a candidate for prime minister, I humbly ask that you cast your vote for me, Masayoshi Shido!

I felt something rise in the back of my throat, burning the inside of my mouth. Shido’s name echoed several times within the cavern of my skull, as if my mind was struggling to process such a simple term.

Shido’s hopeful speech never ceased to end. Let us set sail toward a new era!

No matter what he said, my seething hatred never simmered. Shido… I hated that name.

* * *

It wouldn’t be another four months until my hatred for Shido was fully realized. Most of my mother’s possessions were taken by either her friends and neighbors, or by the police. With no extended family, it stands to reason her close friends would have received her various belongings. After all, what use does a frying pan have for an orphaned child? What I ended up receiving were various photo albums, books, and a few pieces of jewelry. I never had any use for her necklaces and bracelets, but I often found myself slowly combing through each album, longing for my old life. It was routine at this point.

I was slowly looking through yet another album, feeling my heart clench as my eyes passed over each individual photograph. Years have passed since her death, but the memories weren’t any less painful.

Whether it was luck or divine intervention, time seemed to slow to a crawl as a singular sheet of paper fell from behind one of the photographs. As I carefully picked it up, it felt fragile in my hands, as if it were mere moments away from crumbling into dust. I felt my throat close shut as I stared at the paper, slowly taken in its written contents. My heart nearly stopped all together when I saw “Kaiyo” written at the very bottom.

I never knew how tormented my mother truly was, how deep her emotional scars ran. The worst part of everything was knowing there was nothing I could realistically do to help her. I simply didn’t have the ability. It wasn’t my fault, but I still felt responsibility. She wore an intricately crafted mask that no one, much less a toddler, could see through. 

The note was essentially one long apology. It seemed my mother had finally succumbed to the despair that had been brewing within since before I was even born. How cutting. To think she had withstood this agony for six grueling years. I couldn’t decide if I was supposed to feel devastated or impressed.

When I had finally reached the end of the note, I felt the entirety of my body seize up. As I scanned the last few sentences, that same burning sensation started to spread throughout my torso. My hands began to shake as I read those sentences again and again, making sure I didn’t misread or misinterpret anything.

I can barely sleep anymore, she wrote. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I always see him lurking from the shadows. I’m scared he’s going to take me away from Goro, or he’s going to do something terrible to him. He knew I was pregnant, but that’s the extent of his knowledge. If he were to actually learn about his son, I don’t know what could happen. Goro and I are both scandals that threaten his career. I can’t imagine what kind of father Masayoshi Shido would have been if he decided to stay… I’m terrified.

* * *

By the time dinner was served, I had long since lost my appetite. The intense hatred that swirled within only grew stronger as my mother’s final words echoed in my mind. Throughout the evening, I had never felt so angry in my life. I was ready to fight whatever stepped in my way. It was a rather low feeling.

However, something else brewed alongside my hatred. What bloomed later that night was a sense of conviction, vengeance, and justice. I felt my smile grow manic as I laid in bed. My fantasies started to run wild. I hadn’t felt so alive in a long time.

* * *

There was no father, and memories of my mother were admittedly faint. Masayoshi Shido was going to pay for both of those things, no matter the cost. For my mother’s sake, I vowed to enact justice with my own two hands.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This short Akechi character study was actually my final project for my literature class. The prompt was to imitate the writing style of a particular author, so the lack of quotation marks in the dialogue was purposeful. There also might be other literary devices sprinkled throughout the passage that I might not have normally used. 
> 
> The writer I chose to imitate was Francisco Cantú, author of the memoir "The Line Becomes a River: Dispatches from the Border."
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy me tormenting our favorite pancake boi.


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